


Six Lives End (In Blumental Tonight)

by OpheliaLMX



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: 110 percent canon compliant to e87, Abusive relationships are still complicated, Bren was the leader, But seriously Trent and Bren's relationship is clearly incredibly abusive, Caleb Widogast's Backstory, Emotional Abuse, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Manipulation, Non-magical indoctrination of teenagers, Terrible implications in terms of culpability, Why Bren broke but Astrid and Eodwulf did not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpheliaLMX/pseuds/OpheliaLMX
Summary: Bren, Astrid, and Eodwulf are impatient to graduate early from Soltryce Academy, but Master Trent Ikithon is wary.Bren convinces him that they are ready to be Executioners for the Empire, but they just have one final test to complete first.When Trent sends Bren and his classmates home to visit Blumental, a new crisis emerges that shakes them all to their core.
Relationships: Astrid & Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Astrid & Eodwulf & Caleb Widogast, Background mentions of Bren/Astrid, Eodwulf & Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Trent Ikithon & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Six Lives End (In Blumental Tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was hoping I'd be able to have this all set and polished before E88, but all I can offer for now is part 1, which is roughly the first half. For now though, and possibly only for the next four hours or so - canon perfect.
> 
> Also please note, all dialogue in this fic is, unless noted otherwise, in Zemnian. As much as I badly miss including German words in dialogue - they are all speaking Zemnian fluently the whole time here.
> 
> This fic stands alone. But for those few lovely people who are familiar with my Astrid, Eodwulf, and/or Ikithon from other works (eg. Strong, Come Home, Intimidation-Deception), this is the same incarnation as them, but there is no overt reference to anything that has been jossed.

Master Trent Ikithon taps his forefinger slowly against the polished mahogany surface of his desk, and observes his student placidly. It is not uncommon for Trent to share conversations with Bren in his office, and usually they carry a degree of casualness Trent otherwise reserves for a select few of his friendlier colleagues.

Still, his desk is neat and orderly, and the collection of possessions Trent has on display is as deliberate as ever. His sturdy bookshelves appear overstuffed and chaotic, full not just with tomes but devices and treasures he has made or collected in his time. A delicate silver clock ticks soothingly from the top of the nearest shelf.

For his part, Bren is of course uniformed and well presented, though he is leaning back in his chair, not slouching but at least comfortable. There are few in the Empire who would look Master Trent Ikithon in the eye, but Bren is certainly one of them.

“We can do more than we are,” the student is complaining, though it is without fire. This is not the first time they have discussed this. “As long as we are still ‘students’, our hands are bound. It’s a waste.”

“As I have told you a number of times,” Trent responds mildly, “your mainstream counterparts at the Academy will be graduating in eight months.”

This is perfectly true. Bren and the other two are growing restless waiting for their own graduation, however, and to be fair their impatience is not unfounded. It had once, early on, made sense to compare the progress of Trent’s chosen students to that of the others at Soltryce, but that time has long since passed and they know it.

Bren huffs.  
“Eight months,” he mutters irritably.

Trent considers him for a moment with faint amusement. Bren is so bullheaded, brilliant or no.  
“I will confess, however… I have been asked by other instructors when I will be recommending your early graduation,” Trent says. “I have told them I have... reservations.”

Bren’s expression sharpens endearingly, his blue eyes fixed on his teacher as he sits up straighter.  
“But – wait, are you saying that, by the Academy’s standards, we could be eligible _now_?”

Trent waves one hand dismissively.  
“That cannot be a great surprise to you, surely,” he says. “You have witnessed the level at which your mainstream classmates practice the arcane. By this point even Eodwulf has surpassed the minimum requirements for-”

“Eodwulf’s capabilities would put any other student to shame,” Bren interrupts warningly.

Bren’s righteousness and defensiveness on behalf of friends and subordinates has become quite charming, and Trent has always encouraged it to a degree. Hubris is the folly of many wizards, himself included, and he has no desire to see Bren repeat any of his own past mistakes. He raises both hands slightly in a mock gesture of peace.

“You may put your claws away, Bren. I am not disagreeing with you.”

Bren does not look satisfied, but doesn’t push the point either, attention instead on his main goal.  
“We can all demonstrate our capabilities, Trent,” he says pointedly. “You know that. We have completed theoretical studies to every required specification; we have worked – _hard_. And you of all people know our practical abilities. I heard a whole class graduated early in Zadash. If the Academy is already amenable, why are you yet to nominate us?”

Trent gives a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and tapping his finger against the desk again. It is a sign of internal conflict that he would not permit other students to witness.

The reality is that the Cerberus Assembly are mostly elves, with centuries behind them. They have been rehashing their same old magics for hundreds of years, and will likely do so for hundreds more. They do not think of such things as successors, or legacies, or the risks and rewards of innovation. They don’t know the honour and humility of being relied upon to do the dirty work, and while Oremid Hass may train wizards for battle in Zadash, none of his little war mages could hold a candle to one of Master Ikithon’s Vollstreckers.

“You are not usual students,” says Trent carefully. “It is my intention that, upon your graduation, you will be associated with me, yes, and carry with you a portion of my reputation, but you will also recognised as… persons to be trusted in secure circles. Graduating will mean heavy responsibility, Bren, for all of you. Immediately.”

“I am aware...” says Bren, frowning.

“You understand then, it is not a just a question of whether you have proven your competency with the arcane,” says Trent. “To be an Executioner, you must have proven your absolute loyalty to the Empire and all that it stands for, your unshakeable allegiance. Do you feel that I have given you an adequate opportunity to do that?”

It is a deliberately loaded question. Bren’s dart automatically to the heavy leather straps Trent keeps coiled on his well ordered, mahogany desk. They have proven necessary over the past months. At first, Trent thought he would be able to conduct his new procedures without necessarily strapping students in place. But a certain amount of struggling is reflexive, he has learned, particularly when crystal pierces into living muscle. At one point early on, Astrid had spasmed so suddenly that she had almost severed her own bracial artery, and Trent had been forced to admit this would not be feasible without restraints. Now, they are a matter of course.

Bren crosses his arms tightly with what seems like discomfort, and looks back to Trent, meeting his eye.

“Eodwulf has kept a cultist restrained even as the man started conjuring acid,” he says slowly, seriously. “He still has the scars from ankle to hip and that was almost two months ago. Astrid… Astrid and I executed deserters last week, and the filth we destroyed must have been younger than us but their poison would have overwhelmed most soldiers. We will keep the Empire strong, no matter what. You know that.”

His determination is legitimately compelling. Very convincing.  
“So you are saying there should be no test?” says Trent. “That what you have all demonstrated in the course of your training thus far should be enough to warrant the title of Executioners for the Crown?”

Bren’s brow furrows and he is quiet for a long moment.  
“That is not what I said,” he says finally. “I don’t want you to graduate us if there is a final test still to come. I am just saying, give us this test now, and we will succeed. We are not impatient to flourish mantles or hold titles for the recognition of King or commoner. We are impatient because we feel the urgency of the War, Trent, and we want to be of more use.”

His passion is sincere, reassuring. Trent leans forward to grasp Bren’s shoulder.

“You will be,” he says honestly. “I am… I am convinced. I had intended to hold off, but if this is your wish speaking for your team-”

“It is,” says Bren.

“… Then I will arrange a final assignment and inform the Academy that you shall be graduating early,” Trent finishes. “I will need to make arrangements with a contact in Nogvurot regarding your final test, though, so it shall not be for another week at least.”

Bren gives a breath out.  
“Yes, okay.”

Trent pulls back; his young student’s enthusiasm is infectious, and he smiles at Bren indulgently.  
“In the meantime, as you have completed the coursework, I think it fitting for you all to go home to your families, at least for a few days. There will be no rest once you have graduated. You may inform Eodwulf and Astrid of our plans.”

“Thank you, Trent,” says Bren with a nod.

Trent gestures lightly for the door.  
“I will make sure your parents are informed of your upcoming visit – let us say the day after tomorrow.”

Bren nods and stands up quickly, as Trent turns his chair around to face his desk properly. The mahogany desk has several drawers, and as Trent opens the second one he can hear Bren exiting the room and gently pulling the door closed behind him.

Trent carefully selects a blue quill from his collection of arcane and mundane writing supplies, as well as a special wax seal. The enchantment on the seal is far from the most powerful at his disposal, but it will enable him to instantly deliver each letter from the comfort of his office. He turns the blue quill over in his hands, considering the slightly unnatural shade of the decorative feather between his long, careful fingers.

He might lose one, Trent thinks. They are still young – neither of the boys is yet eighteen. And aside from that, Eodwulf is soft, Astrid... bullheaded.

But Bren is right. The Dwendalian Empire is at war, and Trent only has so much time. The masses need the direction of sounder minds and the protection of practiced and powerful leaders. The Empire needs its mages, now, and if the strong are to emerge the weak must be culled. It’s a calculated risk. If one of his friends fails, Bren will just have to cope.

Trent unscrews a little pot of ink and reaches for the stack of plain parchment on the desk to his right. In the back of his head, he runs through the logistics of his students’ final test. And he begins to write three letters, one after the other, informing three couples for the last time that their children are coming to stay.

  
  


\- - -

  
  


“ _I_ _a_ _m sick of it, Una.”_

 _It’s Bren’s father’s voice. Bren takes a half step back into the shadows at the top of the rickety wooden staircase. It is a strange tone_ _he can’t place_ _._

“ _I’m sick of putting on this mask,” Leofric_ _goes on_ _. “We should be able to scream from the rooftops, but of course our dear sovereign is a coward.”_

 _That’s… inappropriate._ _Bren’s skin tingles. He can see his mother turning towards the stair – but she doesn’t notice him, instead looking down at her hands as she dries them with a dishtowel. She walks out of sight towards the other side of the kitchen._

“ _Just a little more patience,_ _Leofric,_ _” she murmurs._

“ _And they have the gall to claim we are ‘safe’...”_

_A deep, frustrated sigh. The thump of a clay mug on a wooden table. It is a dull sound, but it makes Bren jump anyway. Everything sounds strangely loud, from his mother’s chair scraping against the wooden floor, to his own deafening heartbeat thumping in his ears._

“ _I’m sorry, my darling. I am just restless,” he hears his father mutter apologetically._

_His mother gives a familiar, sympathetic hum.  
“It sickens me too, seeing him in the colours,” she responds quietly after a long moment. “But once he graduates… once he graduates then we can finally start to tear them down.”_

Bren does not know how he got back to sleep last night after what he overheard. Even now, he can barely comprehend it, can hardly believe. His whole life he has been proud to the son of a military man. Part of a family of principal, of loyalty. Just two days ago, he was so excited to tell his mother and father that he would be graduating early. That he would be able to help the Empire they all so loved, in ways his parents could probably not even imagine. At the time, they had seemed happy. Bren had seen tears in his father’s eyes, and thought it was pride.

Now, he feels like he has sludge in his veins, deep and thick and disgusting.

It is morning, and Bren honestly doesn’t know how he made it out the front door without his parents just _knowing_ , somehow, that he had heard them. He doesn’t know how he forced it out of his mind so strongly that he could have behaved like everything was normal. How did he eat breakfast without being sick? How did he... hug his mother?

Bren’s skin crawls.

Traitors.

He is outside of the front door, surrounded by limp flowers and the thick green leaves of the vegetable patch, and he just... has to move, has to get away. He begins walking, swiftly but with no destination.

What Bren really needs now is be alone, to be in a space that is his, but his childhood house feels utterly tainted by his own flesh and blood. Bren cannot even bring himself to think of how stupid and naive he has been to trust them. How long as he been blind? He clenches his fists in his pockets so tightly his knuckles start to burn.  
Old Mr. Kohl is working in his own garden across the street, and although the old man is a neighbour he has known since birth all Bren wants to do is seize him by the throat and demand to know if he’s a part of this too.

Mr. Kohl gives a friendly wave, and Bren just stares.

He walks away, swift and directionless, before Mr. Kohl can ask if something is wrong.

“ _Oswin still insists that we should tell them now,” says Una. “He says they’re good kids, they’ll fall in line.”_

 _Bren has to strain his ears to hear, but, numb with disbelief, he does not dare creep any closer. He sinks down to a crouch, and can just spy his father’s elbow on the table. Leofric seems to be holding his head in his hands._ _O_ _n the wall by the kitchen doorway hangs his old tabard of the Righteous Brand,_ _displayed prominently_ _._ _With ‘pride’._

“ _He says what?”_ _Leofric_ _demands_ _of his wife_ _incredulously. “Oswin’s a lunatic; that girl of his has never ‘fallen in line’ in her life.”_

“ _What he really wants is to_ _tell Astrid before they go back to the Academy...”_

“ _What!_ _What utter-_ _”_

“ _Hush!” Una interrupts with a hiss. “I just wanted to know your thoughts, Leofric. He won’t do it. Not without all of us in agreement.”_

“ _Are you sure?”_

“ _He and Marta understand that we can only be safe if we work together.”_

_There is a moment of quiet, and Bren rubs his arm with a shaking hand. It still aches from last week, but he’s used to it. Some pain is worthwhile; any true, loyal citizen of the Empire would understand that._

“ _There are so many eyes on them,” Bren hears his father say. “Even poor Inge wouldn’t be able to get through to Eodwulf right now. They’re just not our kids while they’re at that school –_ _t_ _hey won’t see that the so-called ‘Empire’ is held together by a_ _festering_ _scab while they are living. In. That. Scab!”_

_A thump of Leofric’s fist against the table._

“ _I know – but quiet!” Una whispers.”Bren is asleep.”_

_They are both silent for a long moment as if listening for any sounds from upstairs. Bren holds his breath. A tear runs down his cheek and, paranoid, he catches it before it can fall to the ground. Just in case._

“ _I agree,”_ _he hears his mother murmur. “That was what I told him..._ _When they’re_ _finished, when they’re_ _out… then we can make them listen._ _W_ _e’ll have as much time as we need with them at home._ _They will_ _change their minds,_ _they will_ _join us._ _But only when their ties to Rexxentrum are severed._ _”_

“ _I’ll talk to Oswin,” says Bren’s father. He sounds so tired, so old. “_ _His little girl may be a champion of the cause one day, but not until she’s good and done with the Soltryce Academy.”_

The streets are quiet in Blumental. It is eight minutes past eight – the farmers will all still be out doing their morning chores, and other families will be sitting down to breakfast. The rhythm here is very different to the city.

Bren realises that, without really thinking, he has begun walking to the modest centre of town. This is where the carriage should arrive in approximately four hours to take himself and his classmates back to school. Being from one of the wealthier families in Blumental, Astrid’s family lives near the centre of town, and as soon as Bren thinks of that, he consciously begins following the route to her house. Bren hasn’t been there so much since he and Astrid stopped trying to be in love, but he will never forget the way. He’ll never forget the convenient side-window into the bedroom she had deviously talked her brother into trading, or the viciously creaky, polished wooden floors.

He thinks about Marta, Astrid’s usually bedridden mother, and her merchant father Oswin. He thinks about them talking about Astrid behind her back, wanting to… what, turn her into a revolutionary? He feels a surge of protectiveness.  
All that she has worked for, all that Astrid has achieved, all of her lessons, her indomitable faith in the Empire. Her parents would take that away from her.

Scum.

Bren picks up the pace marching for Astrid’s house, and in fact becomes so focused on that one task that the sudden sound of a voice in his head nearly causes him to trip over his own feet.

“ _Bren, I have encountered_ _delays_ _with Nogvurot. You may still return to the Academy today if you wish, or stay in Blumental. What is your choice?”_

Bren stumbles inelegantly, kicking up dusty dirt on the quiet street. He is close to the centre of town now; he has just seem Thermin Marshall open the quiet little post office, and at the end of the road Bren can see one of the few regular patrols of Righteous Brand. The only pedestrians close enough to notice him trip are two of Mr. and Mrs. Fleischer’s kids, the elder daughter pushing a wheelbarrow full of pumpkins. The younger one, their son, points at Bren tripping other nothing and laughs. Bren glares halfheartedly but can’t bring himself to care.

He hides his mouth behind his hand to reply.

“We need to return urgently. Please, Trent,” Bren says quietly. He breathes out unsteadily, trying to be calm, to be sensible. He has to be stronger than this. “A faster option than the carriage would be preferable – I need to speak with you.”

There is not an immediate response. Bren glances at the two children, who have slowed to watch him curiously. He manages a half smile at them and continues hastily along the road, trying to appear normal. To compose himself. There is likely nothing Trent can do to make the carriage come any faster; the journey from Rexxentrum to Blumental takes half a day at best. But at least the carriage is coming, and if Trent’s attention has not been torn away by some skirmish on the Empire’s borders or emerging criminal threat, he will be at the Academy when they arrive back.

Bren passes by the Righteous Brand at the end of the road (one of them is a young woman who looks about his age; she’s new), to arrive at the quiet centre square of Blumental. Here, there is a wide space where farmers and merchants will often come to pedal wares, though at this time of way there are not many people around. A mule pulling a precarious looking cart is being led through the square by a familiar young lady – this is Hildimar, whose family manages the dairy, presumably delivering milk. Bren pauses for a moment rather than walking into the square; Hildi is the type to try and start a conversation but all Bren can think of right now is that anyone in this town could be vermin in a friendly mask.

He is just watching the cart disappear from the square when he hears a soft, arcane pop behind him. Bren spins around edgily, magic as his fingertips as he partially draws an arcane symbol in the air.

It is no threat though. In fact, there, next to a battered, thankfully vacated old stable in Blumental, Trent Ikithon stands, wrinkling his nose slightly at the scent of stale hay and manure. He wears a high collared cloak over deep green robes, and glances at his surroundings with thinly veiled disgust, so utterly out of place that in other circumstances Bren might have laughed out loud. His eyes train on Bren with a look of concern.

“Bren.”

That’s all it takes. The sound of Trent’s voice, and the sight of him standing here, is an almost overwhelming relief. The teacher’s quiet composure, the familiar air of judgement and admittedly well-earned arrogance. Bren feels his eyes prickle.

“You came to Blumental,” he manages stupidly.

For a moment, he worries that Trent will be able to see something in him, that he is tainted, but this concern passes almost immediately. In Trent’s eyes, Blumental has never been much more than a hotbed of fertile muck in the first place, and it’s never stopped him from believing in Bren before.

The last of the faint blue teleportation magic fades from Trent’s fingers, and he steps towards Bren with concern.  
“What has happened?” he asks, firm but patient, and his quiet confidence alone feels like security and home. “You are not generally one for dramatics; are you hurt?”

Bren shakes his head.  
“No, but something’s wrong,” he says. “My parents, they…” His throat feels suddenly swollen, and Bren looks around himself. Anyone could be listening. If he couldn’t see the seeds of rebellion in his own family, why would he notice it anywhere else?

The Righteous Brand are not within line of sight, but at the opposite side of the town square is one of the elderly Rettig brothers. He blinks in Trent’s direction and rubs both of his eyes. Teleportation magic is very rarely utilised in the streets of Blumental.

“I – have a report,” says Bren. “And I want for us to get back to the Academy, something is very wrong.” He feels his lip tremble and tries to remain straight-faced, but he is looking at Trent Ikithon and _his parents are traitors_.

Trent’s brow is furrowed; he ignores their surroundings and reaches up to hold onto Bren’s shoulders, studying his face.  
“You are stronger than this,” he says, though it is a gentle tone. Bren swallows his panic as best he can. “I am happy to return us to the Academy, where I will have… a lot of questions. But what of your team?”

“We have to get them,” says Bren immediately. Trent squeezes his shoulders once more as if making sure he will remain upright before letting him go. “Astrid’s house is very close. Eodwulf, ah...”

He trails off rather than finishing the sentence. Trent seems to gather enough from context – or perhaps he simply already knows that Eodwulf’s mother and her wife Fellière care for an extensive orange orchard on top of their fields of most likely near-ripening corn, so even if Eodwulf is ‘at home’ that would not help much in locating him.

Trent sends an arcane message to Eodwulf, wherever he is, with instructions to come to the town center immediately. Bren fetches Astrid. It is a small mercy that Astrid herself, and not her mother or father, is the one who answers the door.

She is wearing a skirt, which is honestly quite a strange sight. Bren hasn’t seen her in a skirt in a long time.

Astrid goes to speak, but stops herself. She looks Bren up and down.  
“Has something happened?” she asks.

“We are needed at the Academy,” says Bren, and Astrid raises her eyebrows at his tone of voice. It is a direction, not a request.

“I will change clothes and inform my-”

“I think, just come with me now,” says Bren warily, glancing behind her.

_Oswin still insists that we should tell them now… He says they’re good kids, they’ll fall in line._

It seems unthinkable that Astrid’s parents would try anything. But it is no less unthinkable than both of their parents plotting revolution under their noses. Astrid crosses her arms, her clear instinct to object, but for three years she has been training to take orders and they are all well practised at overcoming their instincts.

“Yes, okay,” she says, polite but not bothering to hide her frustration.

  
  


\- - -

  
  


When Bren gives his report back at Soltryce Academy, Trent believes him without hesitation. He seems genuinely surprised, and looks at Bren with perhaps more sympathy than Bren is used to, but he immediately takes Bren’s words seriously. Still more than that, he does not seem to lose faith in his student. It doesn’t matter that Bren would not even be at this school without his parents, it does not matter to Trent that his very name is a disgrace.

“This is not your doing,” Trent says instead, in a matter of fact tone that leaves no room for argument. “Telling me immediately was the most appropriate first course of action. Very brave, Bren. You were exceptional with modest roots. You will be equally exceptional with roots that are poisoned.”

Poisoned. That’s how he feels.

The encouragement helps, it honestly does. But it doesn’t get rid of the crawling, caustic shame Bren feels thrumming in his brain.

Multiple times, even when recounting the story for Trent, Bren catches himself trying to come up with some other reasoning behind his parents’ damning words. Some excuse, anything. It’s pitiful. Every time he catches himself, he knows he is being pathetic.

Bren has to be stronger than this, he simply has to; that is the only way he can be exceptional now. Sure, he can lean on Trent’s approval, but the reality is that Astrid and Eodwulf will need Bren in the same way. That’s how it works; he can’t expect either of them to follow his lead or respect his authortiy if he is going to crumble to pieces. He has spent three years learning to set the example, and he absolutely cannot stop now. Not with Oswin and even bedridden Marta plotting to recruit their child to betray the Empire, and a lingering question mark over the heads of Eodwulf’s parents too.

However nightmarish, Bren must withstand. He wishes he could burn his parents out of his mind completely.

  
  


At least being back at Soltryce Academy helps. At the Academy, people don’t know him as Una and Leofric’s brilliant son. At the Academy, he is one of three very accomplished students who are proteges to Master Trent Ikithon. He may have become a person in Blumental, but at Soltryce Academy he is becoming someone who matters, and that is far more significant, surely.

He does speak with Eodwulf and with Astrid that afternoon, as soon as he feels he will be able to manage it. Even before the conversation, Eodwulf is strangely, uncharacteristically quiet and Astrid downright irritable.

They are seated around a small,square table in the Academy’s enormous indoor courtyard, a glorious hall with bubbling fountains, the noise of which provides a certain degree of privacy. Their table is mostly hidden behind one of the shimmering pools of what cannot be just water given how it reflects light back in such a wide spectrum of colours.

“So… Trent has said he is going to investigate,” Bren finishes quietly. “But...”

He gives a helpless shrug. The colour is absolutely drained from Eodwulf’s already very fair face, and he has not moved since the beginning of Bren’s account. Astrid’s cheeks, meanwhile, are flushed, and her hands are balled into vicious fists on the table. The rage radiating from her feels like a reprieve from the twisted mess inside of Bren’s own head.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

Astrid’s hand trembles and she growls between her teeth, slamming her hand hard on the table. Bren hears something crack and hopes it was the wood; Eodwulf jumps.

“What – arrogance,” Astrid growls. “What colossal, delinquent, _reckless_ arrogance.”

“Trent is investigating-” Bren starts, but she interrupts him.

“This morning, my – mother, my-” She can’t seem to find words she is happy with and just growls lowly between her teeth. “She asked if I was sure I wanted to go back to ‘that school’. Said I didn’t have to, if I didn’t want to.”

If Bren had any hope, he feels it sinking, chilling him inside.  
“Oh.”

“I thought, really? Just before graduation?” Astrid says, mostly to herself, and the sheer level of energy radiating from her, the poison in her voice, is almost intimidating. “I thought it was funny.”

She doesn’t seem to know what to do with her body, and stands up.

“I thought it was _funny!,_ Bren” Astrid repeats again, practically shouting at Bren.

Her hands are shaking, eyes murderous. Eodwulf stares blankly through the table.

“Without this Empire, we would have nothing,” says Astrid, her voice shaking. “Do you know that? Mother – long dead. My father destitute.” She throws her arms up helplessly, eyes glittering with tears. “How could they be so stupid. How could they think...”

She crosses her arms and faces away from the table, head bowed and breathing heavily. Bren swallows thickly. Two students, newer ones by the looks of them, pause while walking near the fountain, arms laden with books.

“ _Are you okay?_ ” one of them asks in Common, tucking a lock of silver-blond hair behind his ear. The other, shorter and broader, holds their books closer to their chest.

“ _Lover’s quarrel_ ,” says Eodwulf automatically, matching their language and looking up from the table.

The blond student looks between the three of them, while his friend is still warily watching Astrid.

“ _It’s complicated_ ,” Eodwulf adds.

“ _Leave_ ,” says Astrid with gravity.

There is raw power in her voice, and the blond almost trips over in the process of backing away.  
“ _Ah – okay, sorry!_ ”

“Sorry,” the second one echoes in Zemnian, as if that would help.

As they both depart, the silence is heavy. Astrid turns back to the other two again, letting out a low breath, and pushes the tears from her face with her palms. Eodwulf goes back to staring at the table.

“This is insane,” says Astrid finally, helplessly. “It just – it seems like such a coincidence. Why would they send us here if they’re – ugh.”

“Traitors,” says Eodwulf, and Astrid hiccoughs.

“Yours might be fine,” she says.

Eodwulf stare at her, dead-eyed.  
“Maybe they thought… if it was us who was enforcing the law… we might look the other way,” he murmurs in almost a whisper. He blinks his own tears from his eyes and lowers one hand to where Bren knows he carries his holy symbol in his pocket. “Lawbearer...”

“So they’re idiots then,” says Astrid hysterically. “They’re all… idiots.” She smacks her hands against the table again ineffectually, half a dozen times. “This is impossible, right? It’s impossible, we have to be making this all up.”

“I overheard something too,” says Eodwulf softly.

Bren and Astrid both look at him sharply. Eodwulf seems deflated and miserable, and oddly young. He swallows, pulling his silver holy symbol out of his pocket and holding it between his hands on the table. It is overly large and crude for a holy symbol, but fits neatly between his palms.

“I was going to report it, I just – I thought I’d report it to you, Bren, in case you thought I was just… crazy,” he says. He squeezes the silver axe-head shaped symbol of Erathis. “I think Mama and Fellière thought I had already left for the orchard, but...” He closes his eyes, breathing out unsteadily. “Fellière said, ‘I’m nervous, Inge. You know Leofric was in the Righteous Brand… soldiers don’t forget where they come from’. And Mama told her that if he gave up on the rebellion they would just run away to Nicodranas.”

He swallows, opening his eyes to glance momentarily at Bren, but then looks back at his hands.

“And Fellière said ‘what about Wulf?’, but...” Eodwulf shrugs and seems to shrink into himself. “Lawbearer...”

Bren feels his heart break a little bit more. It had taken a lot for Inge to break away from Eodwulf’s father, and ever since then she and Eodwulf have been extremely close. Extremely protective.

“What if it’s the whole town?” asks Astrid despondently. “Do you think Master Ikithon would raze it?”

It’s like she is trying to make a joke, but the Cerberus Assembly have razed towns before. Not family villages like Blumental, but Bren is sure that not much is left of the cult-ridden mining outpost Trent told them about last year.

“There are too many children,” says Eodwulf.

Bren feels an impending sense of doom even now.  
“Trent needs to know what you overheard too,” he says. “And what your father said to you, Astrid.”

Eodwulf nods slowly, dismally; they both look lost.

“Pull yourselves together,” says Bren gently. “Be strong. Now is the most important time to put order above savagery. This is how we can be of use right now.”  
He rubs his still-sore arm reflexively, but Bren is careful to maintain power in his voice. Decisiveness.  
“We will talk to Trent, then tonight you will try to forget for a while.”

His eyes unintentionally meet’s Astrid’s as he says this. Bren looks away but she does not.

“And tomorrow we will… deal with whatever happens tomorrow. We have always excelled despite modest roots,” Bren says seriously, and reaches across the table to grasp Eodwulf’s forearm. “We will continue to excel with roots that are poisoned.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this wasn't too choppy. And I hope very much that you enjoyed!
> 
> Also if you want to come hang out on tumblr, I'm here. :)  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ophelialmx


End file.
